


one percent

by Secretive



Category: DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Angst, But mostly angst, Fluff, I'm Sorry, M/M, That One Angsty Fic Every Fandom Needs But Doesn't Want, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 01:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretive/pseuds/Secretive
Summary: "Just kiss me, Hal."And he does. It's messy, it's wet, it's nowhere near the mind-blowing first kiss he'd had in mind, but it's breath-taking, addicting, and Hal doesn't want to let go. Barry tastes greasy, worn, and that one percent of doubts, of insecurities, of mustard-tinted fear shrivels like a pine in the wintertime.





	one percent

"I think I like you," Hal tells him one dreary winter's morn, away from the nail-biting likes of Earth. The Watchtower orbits in its usual, lazy circuits and its cafeteria buzzes in its habitual, languid chatter.  
  
"Oh, you _think_ you like me?" Barry Allen is halfway through his third burger ("Super speed, super _metabolism_ , genius"), "I'm flattered. Really."  
  
Hal Jordan has saved entire planets -- hell, entire universes -- and he can't believe this is happening. He's butchered the Sinestro Corps six times over, conquered the literal embodiment of fear, and he can't believe he's getting sassed by chaste, collected, impeccable police scientist Barry Allen halfway through confession.  
  
" _Hold up_ , can I try that again?"  
  
"Try what again?"  
  
Hal steals a fry, "Smart ass."  
  
Barry shrugs, and slaps his hand away, a blur of scarlet red. He goes back to eating, nonchalant and bleary, but the little quirk of his lips is unmissable. Bastard. Hal inhales through parted lips. Take two.  
  
"I like you, Allen. I'm at least ninety-nine percent sure." Hal presents an elaborate rose construct.  
  
Barry laughs. Short and sweet and silky and Hal feels like his goddamn heart is going to burst out of his chest, "Is that a confession? Are you asking me out, GL?"  
  
"I am." Hal twirls the rose between index and thumb, runs a playful hand through auburn hair, "C'mon," he raises the rose, "you _know_ you can't resist me."  
  
"Because Green Lantern knows all," Barry snorts, but he's grinning, a brilliant, blinding smile, "but you're right," he plucks the rose from his hand, "I can't."  
  
"Is that a yes?" Hal wheezes, ears ringing, mind racing, "That was a yes, wasn't it? Tell me that was a yes."  
  
Barry looks ridiculous in his bright scarlet-gold uniform but Hal could care less because he ditches the burger and the fries and leans precariously close, cherry lips pursed as if poised to spill a secret, ocean eyes rising and falling, tantalising and sweet.  
  
"Just kiss me, Hal."  
  
And he does. It's messy, it's wet, it's nowhere _near_ the mind-blowing first kiss he'd had in mind, but it's breath-taking, addicting, and Hal doesn't want to let go. Barry tastes greasy, worn, and that one percent of doubts, of insecurities, of mustard-tinted fear shrivels like a pine in the wintertime.  
  
Barry pulls away. His lips are wet and his bottom lip chapped. He's also grinning like an idiot.  
  
"Yeah," he breathes, "that was a yes."  
  
Hal sees stars, "Sweet."  
  
"Hah," Captain Marvel says two tables away, "that's gay."

 

* * *

 

  
  
They date sporadically for months. That little seed of not-quite doubt goes dormant in the onsets of spring and for a gaily, thriving summer their relationship festers. The Flash and Green Lantern team-up semioccasionally; crime rates plummet in Central and Coast City as red and green streaks make their bloody verdant mark against night-swept streets.  
  
Hal smiles more and Barry jokes more and the League lightens in their wake. Bruce and Clark start to spend time together out of black and blue tights, Arthur stops spending angst-ridden days talking to fish.  The League actually goes to Taco Bell one playful summers night, out of uniform (bar Victor. He's always in uniform).  
  
And it's nice. Sure, Hal and Bruce argue over nothing three too many times, Clark refuses to eat with his hands, J'onn is overwhelmed by the Crunchy Taco Supreme and Barry eats their budget dry, but it's... nice. The haplessly thrown together team of ragtag, would-be heroes is finally starting to feel like something _more_ , like --  
  
"-- family."  
  
Hal blinks. Rubble and dust fall listlessly. The world is on fire, "What?"  
  
Diana throws him a slanted glance, "I said you saved that family. Their gratitude;  ineffable."  
  
Hal, dazed, watches the family of four being ushered past a broken parademon. Right. The youngest, a fair-skinned, chestnut-haired girl, dons a Green Lantern tee.  
  
"I wish gratitude could pay bills."  
  
A flash of red streaks past, "We just stopped an _alien invasion_ ," Barry says, zipping by, arms loaded with rubble, "and you're complaining about paying bills."  
  
" _Shut it_ , golden boy. 'Bad pay' wasn't in the job description."  
  
"Did you read the fine print?"  
  
" _Smart ass_."  
  
And then he's gone, leaving a trail of dust and the lingering scent of persimmons in his wake. Hal thinks that he should probably invest in clean-up efforts, too, but all he wants to do is kiss his goddamn smart alec boyfriend then sleep for a hundred years.  
  
"He is a good man." Diana muses.  
  
"Who, Barry? Hah, _nah_ , he's -- yeah, my god, he's perfect."  
  
Diana is smiling. It reaches baby blue eyes, and Hal _knows_ it's a joke, she's joking, but it still burns, "Too good for you, Lantern."  
  
The truth hurts more now than it ever has. Carol Ferris, resolute and sure, that honey-laced, golden-gilded chick at the bar; they all deserved better.  
  
"Yeah," Hal says quietly, "you're right."  
  
Diana squeezes his shoulder softly before taking to the skies and Hal is surrounded by rubble and shrapnel and the poignant iron-scented reek of uncertainty.  
  
That one percent, that dormant, sleepy seed stirs and lays its roots; it is dormant no longer.

 

* * *

 

  
  
It happens once. Then twice, then three times.  
  
It's all a part of the job -- and yeah, this _was_ written in the fine print. Hal vacates for Oa in September. It takes two months and an intergalactic war before he's finally able to crawl his way, battered and broken, back to Earth. Barry tells him that Earth was nearly destroyed six times over in his absence. Hal tells him he got off just fine.

  
  
January saunters by and the Red Lantern Corps wreak havoc in some faraway sector a million light years away. The best are recalled to Oa -- Hal reluctantly leaves Earth in the greasy, florid hands of Guy Gardner. He gives Barry an intergalactic mobile phone this time round, so they could stay in touch. Barry sends him cheesy poems every second day and Hal returns with plagiarised prose. One starless dusk where blood paints the field in scarlet gold Hal loses his phone and spends a long, agonising nighttime tirelessly seeking for it. He finds it three days later buried beneath rotting carrion. They rendezvous x months later, a tired, bleary greet under blinking city links. Hal tells him he stopped replying. Barry tells him about a beautiful, doe-eyed girl by the name of Iris West.

  
  
In May the Guardians conduct a universe-wide recall. Earth is left Lantern-less as all four Greens take to the stars. Don't go, Barry tells him as they melt into the sheets, all want and need and risk. You know I have to, Hal says, and they spend their last hours watching the sun rise.  
  
Guy Gardner floats by four months following, insistent of off-planet turmoils.  
  
"I'll be back," Hal says and they kiss, gingerly, "Promise."  
  
Barry laughs against his lips. His voice is sad, "Will you?"  
  
Unease filters through the pits of Hal's stomach as they take off. He looks over his shoulder and sees that pure, untainted head of gold downcast. The seed thrives on his turbulence and grows sharp, elongated barbs.  
  
"Sooo," Guy says as they breach the atmosphere, "yer gonna talk about that?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Good," Guy tells him, "don't pull me into your emotional fuckpile."

 

* * *

 

  
  
What once was slow and sweet grows hasty and desperate. Hal remembers a time when they'd intertwine like children with too much time on their hands, whispering sweet nothings into their ears like they had nothing to lose. He remembers lazy murmurings, drowsy talks deep into the night.  
  
But now they have everything to lose and what was once slow and sweet strives fruitlessly like wet flint on raw steel.  
  
Hal runs tired palms over milky skin, Barry bucks his hips and they fit; just barely. The moonlight falls softly on one figure engulfed by the other and they struggle with the nuances of belts and buckles and tees -- awkwardly, unashamedly.  
  
Hal is so occupied with the subtle dips of Barry's spine, the tenuous drops of his collarbone that he doesn't notice.  
  
It isn't until his hands wander, along the tendons of his neck, across the sharp line of his collarbone and the onset of his lashes -- it isn't until then that he feels the wetness. Cold. Jarring.  
  
Hal looks up. Barry is crying.  
  
And so he pulls away, scared and frightened and panicked and suddenly he's that nine year old boy again, watching the skies burn verdant and gold as his father ignites and takes the world with him.  
  
"Bar?" Hal struggles to breathe, every breath burns his throat, "Bar, what's up? You're -- talk to me. _Please_. Talk to me."  
  
Barry sits up. His cheeks are wet. Hal wants to reach forward, so, so badly, but he looks so vulnerable, so _fragile_ , Hal is scared he'll break. Scared he'll leave.  
  
"You're going, aren't you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Off-world."  
  
"I --" Hal wets his lips, "how'd you --"  
  
"You're weren't going to tell me." Barry smiles but his tears bleed bloody bloody red, and Hal's heart _stops_.  
  
"This isn't going to work."  
  
Hal blinks. Dark shapes move in blackened corners.  
  
"What?"  
  
Barry is moving now, he's salvaging his shirt, pulling over his pants. Hal doesn't move. He stares into white noise.  
  
"I'm sorry. I -- " he's twisting on his ring now, blinking silver and gold, and everything is moving too fast, too _damn_ fast, "I'm sorry."  
  
When Hal finally says something, it's small, fading, "wait."  
  
Barry hesitates. And he does. Because Barry is never crueler than when he is kind.  
  
"We can make this work," Hal spins around, knocks over a table lamp, a forgotten photograph, a silent promise, "like we always do."  
  
"Hal," Barry glides across the room, runs warm, callous fingers across the uneven skin of his jaw, murmurs sadly, bitterly, "don't become what hurt you."  
  
And finally, _finally_ \- Hal understands.  
  
"You're breaking up with me."  
  
Barry kisses him. Short and sweet and silky.  
  
"We broke up every time you went to Oa."

 

* * *

 

  
  
Hal quits the League and spends his time roaming the galaxies of 2814. There's nothing left worth protecting on Earth, so he spends his days in intergalactic isolation, watching stars rise and fall.  
  
When he does return -- far and in between -- he visits his birthright, parries the occasional, hapless thug, visits Martin Jordan's grave.  
  
He visits Central City, too.  
  
Out of uniform, devoid of ring. Hal Jordan against the world. He doesn't seek him, doesn't pursue the blazing gold trails Flash leaves in his wake. But he sees him sometimes. Out of uniform, devoid of ring. Barry Allen against the world, as if Doctor fucking Fate was tugging broken strings.  
  
He's never alone. There's that beautiful, doe-eyed girl he'd told him about a million years ago. But Hal's just -- _glad_ Barry could find that spark, that link he could never quite kindle with Carol Ferris.  
  
Hal transcends the ranks of the Corp and staunchly, surely, becomes the greatest Lantern of them all. Fearlessness is _easy_ when you have nothing to lose. Or so he thinks. One dreary winter's night, Central City headlines blaze against the storm; the city sleeps, monotonous, and red lining emblazons itself in his mind -- _Flash Dead._  
  
And as he flies over the quiet, colourless streets of Central City, Hal Jordan feels _fear_ , the yellow roots frothing against his skin. As he skids across the Allen balcony, fumbles with the key he'd not-quite-forgotten to return, slips the lock, slides the door, stumbles rain-drenched into the too-familiar bedroom and --  
  
The tell-tale rise and fall of bed sheets take his breath away. Tide meets shore with a deafening crash.  
  
Barry is curled around his knees, golden hair tousled and unkempt, lips pursed; brows furrowed, eyes closed. He's battered, he's bruised. He's alive.  
  
"Thank god. Thank god _thank god_ ," Hal teeters till his back hits the wall, cups his face in both hands, and fights the tears, " _Thank god_ you're alive."  
  
Hal doesn't leave -- not until he's sure the idiot doesn't choke on his own saliva, suffer a spontaneous heart attack; vibrate through the bed. He doesn't leave until he's sure he won't lose him.  
  
And when he does leave, it's too late. He's bleary, he's careless, he's _stupid_ , doesn't hear the sheets rustle behind him.  
  
He’s stupid, stupid stupid _stupid_ \--  
  
"...Hal?"  
  
His heart skips a beat. Not like this.

  
"Nope." Hal says in falsetto.  
  
And Barry laughs. He laughs and Hal wants to cry.  
  
"Harold Hal Jordan," there's another crease, another scuffle, "leaving without saying goodbye?"

  
  
Hal holds his breath. He turns around. Barry looks more tired than he sounds. The light from his ring strokes dark eyes and there's coiled, hard tension in his shoulders. But he’s alive. Hal wants to ask if he’s ok, wants to ask what _the hell_ happened out there, wants to ask -- about Iris, about if he missed their starless nights, their bad dates. Hal has always been a selfish, selfish guy.

 

“Wouldn't dream of it. Wanna catch up over whipped cream and caffeine?”

“It’s 2am, Hal,” Barry says, “and I hate coffee.”

 

But he smiles, and Hal knows, that he can't resist him.

 

* * *

 

 

Time in space is like a bleeding dam. Fluid, ever-moving and sure, and it isn't until they settle into the loose, creaky sofa that Hal realises just how much he’s missed.

 

Bad, 80’s comedies that neither enjoy drone in the backdrop as Barry fills him in -- roster changes in the League, the Rogues, Reverse-Flash, his ‘death’. Iris West. Sweet, knowing, _sensitive_ Barry is sympathetic and darts around the subject, like fish in warm waters. Hal is selfish. Hal is selfish, but he also thrives on his pain, so he rubs the small of his back and tells him, quietly, surely; it’s ok.

 

They talk deep into the early morn and Barry tells him about their starless nights, their bad dates, their unlikely success fighting crime; a reporter and a speedster, streaking through the bloody night.

“You’ve really made an upgrade. From dorky space knight to hot ginger reporter.”

Barry smiles, and his hands wrap around untouched, cooling coffee, “She’s not an upgrade. And she’s not a replacement. But you _are_ a dorky space knight.”

Hal scoffs, “Whatever, golden boy. You drinking that?”

“No,” Barry hands him the pink mug, “unless you want me to vibrate through the floor.”

 

Hal laughs. Barry smiles. They indulge in static silence and flashing screens for a long, wistful minute.

 

“I’m glad you’re happy, Barry.”

“I -- are _you_? Happy, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Hal lies, “You should _see_ the hot chicks I have waiting in bed.”

“Hal, you don't even have an address on Earth anymore.”

“I have… a P.O box?”

 

Barry looks at him. Their proximity is suffocating, his empathy intoxicating, “Hal, I… I _know_ you started drifting since, _y’know._ And not just drifting away from _me_ , but from Carol, from the League, from Earth. I -- _we_ just wanted to let you know that we’re still waiting for you, have been since you left for your… full-time space gig. We’ll be here when you’re ready.”

Hal stares at the screen, unblinking. His ring, discarded, glows dimly, “Yeah. I know. I’m ready. I’m -- _y’know_ ,” he lies, and he lies to fool himself, “moving on.”

Barry hugs him. It’s soft, it’s dangerous. It smells of persimmons and cinnamon and dried blood, and Barry Allen has never sounded so sincere in his entire life, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“No. _I’m sorry.”_

“Why?”

 

Barry looks at him. He has those _eyes_ , full of hope, of sympathy, of understanding, and no matter if you were the Rogues, if you were a murderer, if you were a mangled, broken test pilot, no matter who the _hell_ you were, those eyes would insist on that little inkling of goodness he somehow, by some means always knew was there. Hal thinks it makes Barry naive. Vulnerable.

 

Dangerous.

 

“Hal,” Barry says, “Iris proposed.”

His heart breaks, “And?”

“We’re getting married.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

People come from far and wide.

 

Of _course_ they do -- Flash was only ever late because he stopped to befriend every crippled crook, every misfortuned brat with their feet in the muck, every wayward hero lost between two, snow-capped outposts. And he would spend years playing catch-up. Barry was a fool like that.

 

People come from near and nigh, too. Hal sees Bruce and Clark, the perfect, star-crossed antithesis of one another, sharing a quiet, intimate round of champagne behind rosy barbs. He sees Billy Batson, an awkward, quirky addition, mischief simmering. He sees Carol. She looks happy. It looks good on her, so Hal doesn’t approach her.

 

Iris West looks good, too, as she glides down the brimming aisle. And Barry, as immaculate, as humble, as embarrassed as ever, looks unsurprisingly smart in his suit and pants, breast pocket bursting with hydrangeas. Everything was falling so perfectly, so timely in place, like the snowfall that chilling winters morn, where Hal so sincerely, so quietly murmured a stupid, forgotten confession. Hal feels misplaced.

 

He feels misplaced, and even as bride and groom utter their promises, link hands, brush lips, and even as Barry’s eyes snap, sweep over his and even as the oh-so-familiar spark flies, Hal knows, he doesn’t belong. He takes to the bathroom, feeling sick in the stomach. He’s not jealous, he’s not  _angry --_ he’s bitter. Everyone is moving on. And Hal is stagnant, a hydrangea buried in the snow.

 

Barry comes searching for him after the recession. Of course he does. He’s Barry.

 

“Hey,” he says, and Hal doesn’t deserve the gilded, rounded edge of his voice, “you ok?”

“No. Yes.” Hal stares at the teased hems of the suit he coerced from Ollie, “No.”

Barry leans close, always, _always_ knowing exactly what to say, “Did you coerce that suit from Ollie?”

Hal smiles, “Hell yeah.”

 

And so they dabble in stupid, forgettable banter and they laugh over rusted, antiquated memories in a too-expensive bathroom and it’s just like Barry to postpone his own freaking wedding to reminisce with a friend-turned-ex-turned-friend. They laugh. They joke. And Hal knows things will never be the same. He also knows he’ll never move on.

 

Hal’s a fool like that.

 

“Hey,” Hal says, quietly, candidly, _hopefully_ , clinging onto _something_ , “do you still remember that time? That time you ran us to the Atacama Desert to watch the stars? And I joked that the stars looked so small from earth, that they’re more beautiful up-close. You called me a show-off, so I said I’d fly us to the moon and we could stargaze from there. We could have the world in our hands. And then you hit me with a cactus. Do you remember that?”

 

Barry hesitates. He looks down at his hands, and Hal knows exactly what he’s going to say before he says it.

 

“No,” he says sadly, “I don’t.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> i promise on prime earth they're happy and together and well


End file.
